


Tribute

by valamerys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Hair Pulling, Masturbation, Roleplay, Smut, Spanking, Throne Sex, fall court, high lord!Lucien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: “And what is the tribute?”She could say my heart or my love, or simply bound up the stairs and give him a kiss, but… Elain wants him, and she wants him like this, her capricious, commanding High Lord on his throne. And she knows how he’d want her.She wets her lips, looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “My body. That you might take your pleasure with it as you wish.”





	

Elain hurries through the halls of the Fall Court palace, pulling a stray scrap of ribbon out of her hair as she does.

“Jax!” She calls, upon passing the chancellor. “Are they still going, or have I missed them?

He grimaces. “I’m afraid they just ended, my lady. The High Lord has dismissed everyone.”

Elain stops, swearing softly as she catches her breath. She’d meant to be there for Lucien’s first formal appeal-hearing as High Lord of the Fall Court—an old tradition in which the Lord heard requests from his people and, when he could, granted them, in exchange for tribute. But her fitting with the seamstress had run absurdly long, and the time had gotten away from her. Not very High-Lady-like behavior, given that she and Lucien are engaged.

“Where is he now?” She asks.

“Still in the throne room, I believe.”

Elain is off again before the words are even out of his mouth, passing a few nobles who murmur respectful greeting to her. When she gets there at last—the palace is so _big_ , so unnecessarily sprawling—she pushes open one of the monstrously tall doors to the hall just a bit, and peeks in. If Lucien’s conducting business of some kind, she doesn’t want to interrupt.

The Fall Court palace is beautiful and earthy, make of equal parts stone and living trees magically coaxed into growing in the shape of walls. The throne room is mostly the latter, the enormous, cathedral-like space defined by sweepingly tall, arrow-straight trunks that start to branch off just before breaking beyond the vaulted glass ceiling. The sun is setting, the glimpse of sky visible through the leaves increasingly purple, so most of the light comes from the lamps along the “walls” and the ornate chandeliers that hang overhead, lit with fae lights.

Lucien sits alone at the far end of the long room, lounging haphazardly on his throne as he takes a moment to himself. His arm is thrown over his eyes, as though he were resting. Though he’s grown into his new role admirably in the months since the war, long days of formality drain him: Elain reaches for him through the bond and feels the agitation that swirls through his mind as he tries to relax—and the faint spike of annoyance at the sound of the door opening.

“Yes?” He calls, the weariness in it betraying that he thinks it’s some courtier or council member come to bother him in spite of his order. He doesn’t bother moving his arm to check.

Elain stifles a smile. “I would have an audience with my High Lord, if he is amenable to it.”

She relishes the surge of instinctive affection that runs through him when he recognizes her voice, the smile that creeps across his face even before he moves his arm to look at her, fond, amused. “And what is your business, my lady?”

Elain closes the door behind her, approaches the throne slowly, with faux reverence. “I bring tribute to my Lord, and seek a favor in return,” she says sweetly. It’s the traditional script of appeals—he’s spent all afternoon hearing people say that to him.

“I see.” He cocks his head at her, slipping easily back into the tone of a High Lord: regal, disaffected. “But you’ve missed the time for petitions, I’m afraid.”

“And I’m very sorry for it,” she slips a real apology into their game as she comes to a stop at the bottom of the dais, where the tributes are typically presented, “But I thought that maybe my Lord in his understanding would hear me anyway.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”

It’s silly, but seeing Lucien on the throne like this—sprawled uncaringly, completely at ease with the authority, with the _power_ that rests on his shoulders—does things to her. And he looks good in formal court dress, with a cape around his shoulders and the High Lord’s coronet glinting on his head. She makes a mental note to have him wear _only_ the cape and the coronet for her at some point.

If Lucien can sense through the bond where her thoughts have gone, he gives no indication of it, still imperious and uncaring as he asks, “And what is the tribute?”

She could say my heart or my love, or simply bound up the stairs and give him a kiss, but… Elain wants him, and she wants him like this, her capricious, commanding High Lord on his throne. And she knows how he’d want her.

She wets her lips, looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “My body. That you might take your pleasure with it as you wish.”

A wicked smile flickers across his face, a little rush of delight through the bond before he stifles it. “Well I can’t see very much of it,” He says coolly, sitting back in the throne with a vague gesture to her. “Undress. Show me what you’ve brought me.”

A thrill runs through her at the idea of being so exposed—the order is so different here, in this enormous space that’s the heart of so much power, than it is in their bedroom—and heat gathers rapidly in her stomach as she tugs at the ties of her dress. Fortunately it’s front-lacing, and Elain doesn’t hurry as she undoes it, exposing the bodice underneath, and the way her breasts threaten to spill out. His eyes trace her form as she pushes the fabric from her hips and steps out of it, and Elain feels the weight of his gaze like a caress, making her shiver. She doesn’t pretend not to know he meant undergarments, too, and undoes the little hooks of her bodice. Her chest is bared to him as she lets it drop, joining the dress on the floor. She toes out of her shoes, next, the chill of the marble floor on her feet a contrast to the growing warmth of her skin, and risks a pause, a demure glance at him as she hooks fingers into the waistband of her panties.

His pose is casual, but his expression is one of raw, barely-contained hunger. If Elain wasn’t already wet, it hits her in a rush now, heady arousal making her hands falter as she pulls down and discards the last item of clothing separating her from his eyes.

Lucien doesn’t say anything as she stands before him completely naked. Elain waits for his command in suspended obedience, a flush spreading across her face, her chest. But he doesn't tell her to approach him as she thought he might—he rises, and slowly descends towards her, his footsteps on the stairs too loud in the empty room and his eyes locked on her.

He’s come to inspect his tribute.

Elain holds very still as he circles her, walking a fine line between predatory and detached. One moment he seems as though he might bend her over right there, the next it’s as though he’s examining a mildly interesting trinket he might purchase. She only barely manages not to jump in surprise when his chill fingers make contact with the skin of her stomach; they move up, up until he brushes against the underside of her breast and Elain bites her lip.

She’s already willing to beg him to touch her, if that’s what he wants, but he only pauses a moment before running his thumb across her nipple, watching it peak for him. As though experimentally, he tweaks it, gives it the slightest twist, and Elain can’t help but give a little gasp. It’s the kind of thing he might punish her for, but instead he merely seems to catalogue it. His shields are up, betraying nothing, and it only serves to exacerbate her frustration as his air-light touch traces across her body, up her arm, down her back until he’s mapping the curve of her ass. There’s slick on the inside of Elain’s thighs, now, surely he can scent it, and when his hand crosses her hip it takes all of her self control to not tilt herself towards it, to not try to coax him to touch her where she wants it.

He stops, finally, at her side, and those cool fingers go across her shoulder to brush back a bit of her hair. She feels the tingling gravity between them—even if she closed her eyes, even if he wasn’t touching her, she would know he was there, would sense his presence by the raw ache of the bond.

When he speaks, it’s low, almost in her ear. “What is the favor you seek?” His fingers drag to her collarbone, her neck, and Elain shivers. “What problem would you have your High Lord solve?”

“Only that I’m very wet,” she loses her nerve a little; even as desperate as she already is, even as she knows she’d surely find him hard if she looked down, obscene utterances never come as easily to her as they do to him, “And would have your cock fill me,” she whispers.

He hums faintly. “You want your high lord to fuck you?” 

She nods, but she’s not looking at him, and he must not like that, because he takes her chin inbetween his fingers roughly and pulls her face to his. “I asked you a question,” he demands, harsh, cutting. “You want me to satisfy that greedy little cunt of yours?”

She whimpers helplessly, his aggression going straight between her legs, making her squirm. “Yes, yes, please."

“Please, _what_?”

Elain can't breathe, and he's hardly touched her. “Please, High Lord.”

It seems eternally unfair, how quickly he can undo her, how he can have her dripping and ready for him with only a handful of words, with only a suggestion of the mercurial, dominating male he becomes in their bed. It took weeks of gentle assurance to get him to fully reveal that side of himself to her; he'd been so convinced she'd hate it, or fear him for what he wanted to do to her. That was almost a year ago, now; now they revel in it together, how perfectly matched they are in this way as in so many others.

His eyes search hers for a moment before seeming to decide that her answer is satisfactory. He releases her chin and turns from her sharply, ascending back up the steps and speaking broadly, trusting that she’ll hear him.

“I will use my tribute as I see fit. And if it impresses me, then you shall have your request.” he turns and settles back into his throne, arms braced on the armrests, knees spread wide, good eye dark. “Come here.”

Elain follows him, and tries not to show that her legs feel weak as she stands before the throne, awaiting his command.

 

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**Author's Note:**

> "why do you needlessly split your smut fics into two parts" because i want to see you all SUFFER but mostly because finishing things is hard


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